moving from the visionary's imagination into view that all of us may learn to see further

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THE WANDERER

I'm a Poet, a Prophet, and a story-teller, whowanders alone between glowing constellations 'till Ifind a barren, rocky asteroid to set my easel on. Inorder to capture the vastness and beauty of creationin a painting, I must have vibrant colors that artsupply stores simply don't contain. My knee pops as Iteeter on one leg, stretching my arm out to dip mybrush in the flaming tail of a passing meteor. Themolten red and orange colors steam and hiss, drippingfrom my melting brush as I apply them to the painting.

Giddy and breathless, I'm working at a feverish pace -reaching, reaching inside myself for a way to give theviewers back on earth a glimpse of the elementalforces surrounding me with their pulsating light andenergy.The search for perfect expression is unending.Here's a poem I wrote that expresses this idea ofcontinual reaching, of never being quite satisfiedwith our creative efforts.

Reaching

A small astronaut stands on tiptoeenslaving the pale blinking lightof a distant star in his chubby grasp.

Life's mysteries litter the groundat his feet, discarded likecardboard juice containers on amuggy August day

yet his thirst is not quenched.

Creating a painting is more than just documentinglife experiences. These are only the raw material. Atsome point, your creation may take on a life of itsown and transcend its sources. There's no feelingquite like creating that "something new." No one elsecould have done it quite the way you did, because youare unique and one-of-a-kind! It is my hope that I canprovide some small inspiration for others throughsharing my art.

I went to get a glass of orange juice and found the pitcher empty of allbut a few droplets. As I took out the frozen concentrate, I felt anawkward, drunken dizziness overwhelm me.

"Jeric, my son, someday all these will be your kingdoms to rule," myfather, the king, said with a sweep of his hand. As I looked out over thecountryside from the mountain top, I added three cans of water to theconcentrated juice and stirred, not wishing to wait for it to melt.Somehow being two places at once seemed altogether natural.

"Yes, but I will not come into this power until after your death. Is thatnot so, Father?" I poured myself a glass of orange juice and placed thefull pitcher back into the refrigerator.

"That is true, son. Hopefully my years of experience will benefit you whenthat day comes." I listened to him relate battles of blood and battles ofbureaucracy, and as the sun set on my future lands, I placed the emptyglass in the kitchen sink and rinsed it out. "You are eager for the crown,if not your father's death," he said turning his back to me and walking tothe edge of the cliff which overlooked his realm.

I looked out the storm window at the newly fallen snow and, wondering ifthe car would start, reached a decision. I joined my father at the edge ofthe cliff and put my hands on his shoulders.

"Yes, I am eager for the crown," I said.

"And hopefully I will not need your years of experience to rulesuccessfully," I whispered, shoving him off the cliff's end. Then, pullingon my hat and coat, I prepared for another day of the old nine-to-five.

Originally published under one-time license in thetrade paperback anthology Channel X: Short-Short Stories.

(c) Jonathan Machen

Unity Church mural, Boulder, Colorado

"Life is Passion"

Life is passion.Passion demands newness, each moment.Passion is never satisfied.Passion does not lie in ruts,nor passively kneel to offer mantras to silent gods.Passion sets bridges on fire as she rushes overand laughs to see them burn.

She did not build the bridgesbut only uses them to gallop acrossthe great canyons of time and space and mind.Then she burns themfor she knows she can never return.

Passion moves ever forward.Always through it all, never above it or below it.Passion charges, engages, bowls over and rides on.She licks her wounds when night falls and rests,hiding in a cave or log or abandoned warehouse;or she stands alone under the moonin a snow-covered expanse shimmering with crystal points,giving thanks to the stars over her head --she can be heard in the howl of the she-wolfor the hooting of the great horned owl --and although her body trembles with the coldher heart burns within.

For those who would truly know,their name becomes "Passion."Their life engages deathand their death brings forth new life.They know pain and suffering in time;they know hunger and thirst;they know loneliness --but it blends to sorrow and sorrow becomes joy.the joy of Passion:

Thus do they greet the morning light,and thus are they empowered to ride on.

Forever across the endless.

(Sha'Tara EarthStar) Copyleft no rights reserved

(c) Desmond Donnelly

VISION QUEST

I am the mystery,I am the manifest

I look out from the edgeof a far-flung galaxyand seea black, black hole

this is the mystery which streamsthrough the zero edgeand becomes manifestin the physical world

it is more ancient and wisethan pyramids and sphinxes,hidden yet discoverable,underneath and insidethe visible, tangibleworld of the physical

(c) RG Hudson

(c) Desmond Donnelly

Oil PaintingThe Fulcrum is a contemplation of a significant moment on one's journey. The traveller stands with both the light and the shadow in his field of consciousness. He has journeyed far through subterranean caves and is about to finally attain his goal - to live in the light.With great pause, he stops to meditate on the significance of this profound moment of commitment - to step out of the darkness of the cave and stand fully in the light of God I AM.

Open your third eyeAnd your fourthAnd your fifthMake a wishAnd wrap it up in bubblegumStick it to your bedpostTo dream itself awakeInto your dreamThat is your life.There are wishes made of waterWaving out to seaCaught up in grieveryCat-tails weepingWeaving eerie reverieInto the eveningInto the nightAll through those dreamy,Unaware of the hours days.There are prophetic dreams.They haunt orCreep upon conscious walls.Tell all is notAs simple as it seems.There are reasons, portents, allies.There are dreamsThat wishes would simply die for.They take us out of boundsInto faery realms and more.Sprinkling gold spun out ofShining love and merriment.Yes! The very mintThat stamps us sold,That fulfills our greatest hopes,Flies us to heights aboveThe most benign of clouds,Sets our spirits free.There are dreamsThat bindDefine identitiesExpose deformitiesDeny extremitiesCreate barriers and riftsLook to differencesAs definitionsDefend what they define.There are dreams,There are dramas,There are visions.Tell me yours,I'll tell you mine.